


Side By Side

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe- 1920s, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22418158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 6 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~What's the point of going to church to be cleaned of your sins if you're going to come home to Harley?
Relationships: Basically Everyone/Everyone, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Harley Keener, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Roaring Hot [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 87
Kudos: 360





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Mr. Stark pushes open the door to Harley’s room with a slap of his hand. Barely turning to aim, he grabs Peter’s tie in one hand and Harley’s in the other, and yanks them both in after him. Even Harley stumbles a bit, giggling.

“Good luck, boys,” shouts Clint cheerfully. “Just remember you asked for it!”

“Matched set of troublemakers,” grumbles Bucky in audible agreement. “Got Steve all hot under the collar, and now I gotta deal with him.”

Harley kicks the door shut behind them, just in time, which is good, because Peter can’t think, can’t think about anything, except the dark storm that had built in Mr. Stark’s eyes as Harley’d talked on the ride home from church. Pepper and Natasha had declined to join them in the front car, which meant Happy and Clint had climbed into the second car, too. Which meant it had just been him and Harley, Mr. Stark and Steve in the first car, Bucky driving. The front car, where the first seat in the cab was flipped backwards, so you could look at each other. Or not look, as Peter had done, once Harley’d started talking, started telling Mr. Stark how he’d trained Peter that morning, how he’d gotten Peter to _taste_. 

Harley had been all for giving Mr. Stark a demonstration right then, but Mr. Stark had asked Harley what he’d like to do next, with Peter, and that had distracted everybody until the car pulled up to the mansion. Good God Almighty, could Harley _talk_. Peter’s never heard anybody talk so much, so filthy much, in his entire life. He didn’t even understand half of it, but what he did understand made him want to throw open the front window and crawl up to sit with Bucky. His cheeks feel sunburned from all the blushing.

Mr. Stark pulls them both over to the midnight blue fainting couch in the corner by the closet. He releases them to throw himself into a wide-limbed sprawl on it, arms spread along the back. Harley drops to his knees in front of Mr. Stark, looking up into the other man’s face eagerly, a hand on each of the man’s knees. Mr. Stark cocks an eyebrow at Peter, making time slow down to a crawl for Peter as he tries to figure out _what to do_. Peter swallows, nervously, hands clasping together behind his back, where nobody here can see them shake. He can still taste the communion wine on his tongue, a welcome relief from the hint of salty copper tang that had lingered through the sermon, long past when he could feel it in his mouth.

Mr. Stark’s mouth stretches into a smile, watching Peter shift nervously in front of him, glancing down at Harley on his knees. The toe of one of Mr. Stark’s shoes taps Harley’s knee, a quick shift across the inch of space between them. Harley looks back over his shoulder at Peter and huffs impatiently. “Angel, would it kill you to act like you know the score?” complains Harley.

“I-I don’t, though,” replies Peter stubbornly. “I don’t know the score.” _At all_. Ever.

“He’s gonna blow me,” laughs Mr. Stark, his eyes dancing at Peter. “And you’re gonna help, ain’t ya, Angel?”

“Gonna get you an education, finally,” agrees Harley, nodding. When Peter just stands there, shifting his weight, Harley sighs. He reaches out one hand and grabs Peter’s suit jacket by the pocket, pulling and tugging until Peter stumbles down to crash on his knees beside Harley, hands flying to catch himself on the fainting couch. 

Mr. Stark presses a hand to Peter’s cheek, warm and callused, and tells him, “Time to pay your rent, kid.” Peter gasps in shock, a shiver going up his spine, and Mr. Stark’s smile quirks into a smirk.

“Fuck,” agrees Harley. “ _Past_ time, you ask me. Did all the work this morning and then Steve is telling _him_ he did so good, Tony, I about spit kittens.”

“'S hard to be the big brother,” teases Mr. Stark, patting Peter’s cheek with a heavy hand before pressing a thumb to his lips.

“I’ll say,” says Harley, sliding his hands up either side of Mr. Stark’s thighs. “Coulda spit kittens, them saying he did so good, when I was the one keeping us on time t’church.”

“Mm, was fun walking in with both of you, though,” comments Mr. Stark, pressing his thumb in past Peter’s lips. Peter drops his jaw, automatically now, letting the thumb glide over his tongue. “My new matched set. Noticed I didn’t have to slap you upside once t’pay attention, Hellcat.” His right hand comes up and smacks Harley, hard, making his head whip a little. Peter winces. “Kinda missed it,” Mr. Stark admits when Harley glares.

“He even sang along with the _hymns_!” protests Harley in disgust, glaring at Peter. Peter stares back blankly because that’s, that’s what you _do_ at church. “Ugh,” groans Harley, “and Pepper matched us up, even our ties, and Dolores says standing by him made my suit look like I been wrestling in it! How’s he keep it from getting _wrinkled?”_

“Angelic miracle,” laughs Mr. Stark, before instructing Peter, “I put something in your mouth, you suck, Angel.” Peter takes a breath and tries, tentatively. Mr. Stark’s lips part, just the barest amount, his gaze feeling heavier, deeper, more concentrated, as Peter tries to suck harder.

Harley shifts at Peter’s left side and mutters, “Or lick, he likes that, too.” Peter obediently flicks the tip of his tongue lightly across the pad of Mr. Stark’s thumb and is surprised by the man’s sharp intake of breath.

“Hellcat, I need you to get this angel baby’s lips wrapped around me. Liked the plan you laid out in the car, you still feeling confident in it?”

Peter swallows, thinking of all the things Harley had said, trying to put the jumble of images in order again. It maybe would be a help if he’d sat there trying to listen instead of doing the exact opposite.

Harley laughs and says, “Yessir, I am, been thinking about it all week, since I saw him with Steve and I knew he was ours.”

Mr. Stark nods once, fast, rubbing at his crotch with the heel of his hand for a moment before abruptly withdrawing his thumb. Peter yelps as he lunges forward, strong arms wrapping around Peter’s biceps, hauling him up to sit, perched on Mr. Stark’s lap. Peter blushes as they laugh at him, Harley’s eyes dancing as he chuckles ruefully, “Just getting you in position, Angel.”

“You’d think I was getting him in position for a wallop,” wheezes Mr. Stark, “instead of a suck, Hellcat. Doesn’t that beat all?”

Harley tips his forehead to Peter’s knee, rests it there for a minute, snorting. Peter shakes his head, embarrassment making a blush creep up his neck.

“Lighting up colors again, baby boy,” murmurs Mr. Stark in a dark, playful tone, and then his hands slide up Peter’s sides, under the jacket, stripping it off of him, tossing it over the raised upper arm of the lounge chair to his right. “Let’s see where they lead.”

“N-n-” whimpers Peter, biting his lip to stop himself from saying _no_.

“N-noo,” teases Harley up at him, forehead still pressed into Peter’s knee. “Nooo, don’t want to be _sucked_.” He finds this hilarious, apparently, because he breaks out into giggles, bouncing his forehead on Peter’s knee. Peter glares down at him, as Mr. Stark’s clever fingers untuck Peter’s tie, unknotting it swiftly, sliding it off, throwing it over the jacket. He starts working on the buttons to Peter’s shirt and says softly, “Could work on the cufflinks, Angel.”

“Yeah, help Daddy out,” snorts Harley, but his fingers are working on Peter’s feet, slipping off the loafers, setting them to one side. Mr. Stark sits forward abruptly, jostling Peter, and slaps Harley’s head again, harder this time, knocking it against Peter’s knee with enough force to jerk Peter to one side a little. Harley looks up, eyes dark and searching, reading Mr. Stark’s face over Peter’s shoulder. Peter feels frozen between them, scared, terrified, staring down at Harley, hoping Harley knows what to do.

Harley smiles, slow and wicked and says, “Got it, Boss. I won’t- I won’t play that way.”

“Nice and respectful, Cat,” says Mr. Stark sternly, and Peter shivers, feeling the deep voice rumble through him.

Harley lifts his hands to rest them on Peter’s knees, fingers calm and still, steady. “Nice and respectful, Boss,” he repeats slowly, eyes dark and intent.

“Can’t tell Hellcat to be good,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter realizes with a start he’s talking to _Peter,_ explaining to _Peter_. “Hasn’t got any good in him, or if he does, it’s buried deep.” Peter watches a blush slide up Harley’s cheek, but the other man doesn’t deny this, doesn’t protest it, just kneels there, eyes serious and steady, calm, still. “But we have us a couple shorthands worked out, for when he can’t figure out what everyone else just knows. Keeps him from getting too far outta line.” Harley smiles, then, tight and earnest, and nods. Peter stares. This isn’t right, that look, that smile. He’s maybe only known Harley a week, but it’s too stiff, too small, not _Harley_ at all.

“Yessir, Boss,” says Harley, quietly, nodding agreement, small tight smile never leaving his lips. “Keeps me in line.”

“Outta the gutter,” grunts Mr. Stark, fingers moving back to Peter’s shirt buttons. Peter startles and shifts his arms, working on the cufflinks again, eyes locked on Harley’s strange face.

Harley nods and repeats, “Outta the gutter.” He’s so still, thinks Peter. So still. Harley’s never so still.

“S’where I found him, gutter of a reformatory, still baby faced and already a criminal,” grunts Mr. Stark, moving to the next button. Peter holds the first cufflink tight in his hand while he shifts arms to get the second one. He’s having trouble breathing slowly, breathing safely, caught between them while they do- whatever this is. Whatever this is. He’s never seen Harley so _still_.

“Covered in bugs,” Harley agrees. His fingers twitch on Peter’s knees but don’t move. His eyes remain fixed on Mr. Stark’s face, unflinching, the small smile on his lips that looks, looks _wrong_.

“Covered in fucking bugs,” repeats Mr. Stark, his voice a violent pulse through the air around them. “Even had ‘em in his guts.”

“Nobody wanted me,” Harley says, like it’s a lesson he’s learned by rote, like it’s a prayer, thinks Peter, horrified, his stomach turning.

“Nobody wanted you,” agrees Mr. Stark, pulling Peter’s shirt free of his pants. Peter’s fingers fumble faster at the second cufflink, until it's free and he’s gasping a little, quietly, at the thought of nobody wanting Harley, at hearing Mr. Stark say it like that, out loud, bald faced.

“Fella called you to come put me down,” Harley prompts Mr. Stark. “Put me out of everyone’s misery.” Peter gapes at him. He’s not smiling anymore, that sick smile is gone. He’s just looking up, just past Peter, at Mr. Stark.

“Yess,” hisses Mr. Stark, hands resting on Peter’s sides for a second before tugging up his undershirt. “Put you out of everyone’s misery.”

“You’d’ve done it, too,” Harley tells him, voice soft but confident. “You’d’ve plugged me.”

“Fulla holes,” Mr. Stark assures him. Peter twitches, he can’t help it, who says this kinda stuff to somebody else?

“But you didn’t,” Harley reminds him.

“How could I?” asks Mr. Stark. “You answered my question.”

“Asked me if there was anything I could think of, could convince you I needed to live fifteen more minutes,” says Harley, and there’s a flash of humor in his eyes.

“Fell to your fucking knees right there,” chuckles Mr. Stark, and Peter can feel some of the tension leave Mr. Stark’s body as he shifts under Peter.

“I did,” agrees Harley, and now there’s a twitch to his lips. “Could only think of one thing.”

“Never seen Steve turn so many colors, none of us were expecting _that_ ,” chuckles Mr. Stark in Peter’s ear.

“Was a little busy, didn’t catch that,” admits Harley. Peter’s chest feels tight, imagining, imagining Harley, just a kid, just a kid, just some kid, like the kids at the Home, like the younger guys at the Home, like Peter when he first got there-

“Back all tore up, face black and blue, couldn’t even open that one eye for a week,” Mr. Stark muses, giving himself a shake and reaching for Peter’s wrist, starting to slide the dress shirt off one arm.

“Did I have on pants?” asks Harley, forehead wrinkling.

“‘F you wanna call them scraps pants, sure,” concedes Mr. Stark. “Wasn’t much that wasn’t on ‘em, horseshit, piss, _fuck_ , you stank.”

“Went at you,” Harley says, and there’s his smirk, now, sliding across his lips, “like my life was depending on it.”

“It wasn’t,” Mr. Stark growls. “Was pretty sure I was gonna get off and then plug you anyway.”

Harley nods, like this is the expected response. Peter swallows, thinking of how Harley’d only been buying a bare fifteen minutes with his mouth, thinking of what a rotten trick that was, to play on a _kid_ , to give him hope like that.

“Didn’t, though,” Mr. Stark muses, fingers trailing the waistband of Peter’s pants. Peter can’t look away from Harley’s face, but he would desperately like to close his eyes, because he thinks he knows what’s getting unbuttoned next. 

“Didn’t,” agrees Harley, ducking his head a little. 

“Wasn’t like your tongue knew tricks back then,” Mr. Stark says, and sure enough, he starts the top button of Peter’s pants. Peter shifts on his lap, just slightly, not trying to catch their attention.

Harley laughs bitterly, the sound jarring to Peter’s ears. “No, tricks came later. Was just desperate. Had worked a time or two before, on other jerks come to mess with me, other gutters.”

Mr. Stark chuckles, too, unbuttoning the next two “Smart boy. Even then, Harleycat. Smart. Used what you had.”

Peter watches a pleased expression flit over Harley’s face, a slight flush rise to his cheeks.

“Smart enough to know the only person I had to impress was you, and I had that minute hand ticking,” chuckles Harley. Peter shifts as Mr. Stark pops the last button and rests his hands on Peter’s crotch, cupping him.

“You did impress me, even in that damn shed, covered in bugs and shit,” Mr. Stark tells him. “Even then, Hellcat.” He shifts, his chest pressing Peter forward, hand rising to trail down Harley’s jawline. “Even then, you had more life in your eyes than any man I’d ever met.

Harley’s eyes are blazing now, Peter can hardly look at them, blazing with adoration and gratitude.

“Still woulda plugged me,” chuckles Harley, easier now.

“Yeah, but the fella walked back in,” grins Mr. Stark, and Peter can feel him shaking his head at the memory. “Bucky panicked, dropped him, I grabbed you, and you said-“

“‘I’ll finish you off, mister, but you better kick him in the head so he don’t remember anything,’” finishes Harley, with a laugh.

“ _Fuck_ , I about lost my mind,” laughs Mr. Stark, hand still on Harley’s chin. “About lost my goddamn mind. Knew then I couldn’t let you get lost to the world.”

“Language,” teases Harley, twinkling up at him.

“I’ll language you, Cat,” laughs Mr. Stark. “Still like to lose my mind over it.”

“That guy, what’d you do to him,” asks Harley, eyes narrowing.

“Took care of it. Once you were ours, really ours, I could see he’d made a mistake, treating you that way,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter holds very still in his suddenly tight grip. “Fixed it.”

Harley nods, tension draining out of his frame. “Never thought about it, before. Always figured you would’ve, never worried me none.”

“Anybody ever treats you anything like that ever again,” growls Mr. Stark, “I don’t like their odds for seeing sunrise.”

Harley smiles back, sappy, like it’s a love poem. “I know, Boss. I’m yours.”

“Xactly right. I ain’t your Daddy, I ain’t his, neither,” he slaps Peter’s sides, making Peter huff air and squirm in surprise. “Don’t want to be. But you’re _mine_ , you hear?”

Harley looks up at Peter now, shifts his gaze, looks _into_ Peter. “Yessir,” he says quietly. “Right, Angel?”

Peter nods, eagerly, he can follow this cue, and repeats after Harley, “Yessir.”

“Might rough you up,” Mr. Stark says, voice dark and quiet, face leaning past Peter’s shoulder, now, words clearly just for Harley, “but I never forget you’re _mine_.”

“I know,” Harley tells him seriously. “I don’t mind it rough,” he says, a wicked smile sliding across his face.

“Yeah, that’s been a revelation,” chuckles Mr. Stark, sitting back, shifting under Peter again.

“You think Angel’s ready for his own revelation?” asks Harley, a wicked smile on his lips, eyes back to drilling into Peter’s.

“Could ask him,” offers Mr. Stark. “But I don’t feel like it, somehow. Would rather just take it.” He shifts back, leaning back against the plush blue upholstery, rubbing his shoulders against the thickness like he’s settling in for a long comfortable sit. His hands rub circles on Peter’s sides, small, twitchy little things that almost tickle, except instead they _burn_.

Harley’s smile splits his face. “Yessir,” he says, leaning forward. “Gonna shift him for me, drop them drawers?”

Mr. Stark lifts Peter under his arms a scant inch above his lap with seeming ease, as Harley grabs for Peter’s trousers and drawers in one swift tug. He gets them most of the way down Peter’s hips and then drags them the rest of the way off in a smooth motion, tossing them behind him carelessly. Before Peter can do anything more than toss his head and gasp, Harley leans forward and wraps his mouth around Peter’s soft dick. He slides it in and out of his mouth, and Peter grunts, twitching back against Mr. Stark, hands clenching into fists, because it’s the single most overwhelming thing he’s ever felt.

“You have,” murmurs Mr. Stark, “what may be New York’s best cocksucking mouth wrapped around you right now, Peter Stark. I expect you to appreciate it.”

Peter groans, because he can feel himself getting harder, feel himself swell up, surge up in Harley’s mouth. It reminds him of kissing Harley, feeling Harley’s tongue dance along inside his mouth. It’s overwhelming, kissing Harley, and this is like that, only it’s the difference between a candle and the sun. Peter can’t sit still, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and it’s almost a relief when Mr. Stark reaches up and guides them to tangle in Harley’s hair. “He likes it, Angel,” Mr. Stark reminds him, over the sound of Peter’s stuttering moans and gasps. “Go ahead and tug, if you want, he _likes_ it, Angel.”

Harley hums agreement and Peter chokes, hunching, twitching, because that’s- that’s- that’s too much, it’s too much, the vibration of the hum against his length. Mr. Stark rubs his fingers along Peter’s sides, up his hips, slow strokes that distract Peter from what Harley’s doing not at all, but he feels them, feels the trail of electricity they leave, the burn they smoulder.

After a short time of Harley’s bent head wreaking havoc, Peter can’t help bucking up, he can’t, and so it’s not his fault that Mr. Stark has to grab him so tight and hiss, “Fuck, kid, you keep jumping like that, you’re going to impale yourself ahead of schedule,” and then hold him down, tight against Mr. Stark’s firm body beneath him. Peter can’t help that even held down, one heavy arm tight against his stomach, he’s still twitching and jerking, as Harley sucks and licks and bobs. Mr. Stark’s breath is ragged in his ear, and he knows, he knows from Steve, how a guy can rub, can spill just from rubbing against a backside, but he can’t apologize for the way he’s twitching back against Mr. Stark because he can’t get enough air in, around all the gasps and moans he has to do just to stay alive.

Peter’s chest is heaving, he can’t _think_. He’s clutching Harley’s hair in a tight, desperate grip, when the wave crests and he whines, shocked, embarrassed, as it shakes through him. Harley hums, again, and then his warm welcoming mouth slides off of Peter and he crouches above Peter, hand sliding around Peter’s jaw. Peter opens his eyes, panting, in time to guess what’s happening next, but not in time to close his mouth shut, to shut out Harley and his mouthful of Peter’s white cream. He gags a little, tasting it again, remembering Bucky and the bathroom, but not much. He’s too busy trying to dance his tongue around Harley’s, trying to get control enough to let in a little air and breathe.

Harley moans as they kiss, and Peter realizes he’s still got his fingers trapped in Harley’s hair. He releases them, and they fall to rest on the couch beside Mr. Stark’s thighs, where he can feel them tremble and shake.

“Fuck, Angel,” laughs Mr. Stark, a rumble deep behind Peter, along his back. “Hellcat, I do believe you’ve converted another believer. That good, baby? You like that, Angel?”

Peter hums into the kiss with Harley, because he’s not the one who is going to unseal their lips. He’s staying right here until Hellcat decides to stop.

Mr. Stark laughs and says, “Feeling some appreciation, finally, Hellcat?”

Hellcat laughs, and then sits back. Peter follows him for an inch or two before he realizes he’s doing it, and falls back against Mr. Stark, boneless and blushing and gasping for air. He wipes at his lips with the back of one hand, and then turns it around and scrubs.

“Sin like that don’t rub off,” laughs Harley up at him, “it’s in you, now.” Peter can feel it, the hellfire _burn_ of it, hot and heavy, making his skin tight and his bones turn to lead.

Mr. Stark laughs and says, “Now that was sweet and gentle, Harley, I was watching, so sweet with Angel, like a first time oughta be.”

Harley beams back at both of them equally. “Easy enough to do, he’s so thin skinned, twitchy. Feels everything more than most, our Angel. Easy to be sweet, don’t have to be hard at all.”

Mr. Stark hums wordless agreement, fingers sliding down Peter’s chest, slow and soothing. Peter whimpers a little, because he’s boneless and doesn’t want to twitch, and Mr. Stark shushes him.

“Good Angel, feels good, doesn’t it,” murmurs Mr. Stark in his ear. “You like that, right?” 

Peter nods, a blush sliding up his neck. He did like it, he liked it a lot, too much, it’s not right, him liking it as much as he did.

Harley kneels again, and Peter jerks his knees, just a twitch, like he’s trying to bring them together, trying to prevent access. Harley snorts and says, “Brother, only the first one’s free.”

Mr. Stark chuckles at that and says, “He’s right. Now you know how good it feels, you can remember you owe me rent. Slide on off and let Hellcat teach you how to pay it, now you know how I want to feel.”

Peter stiffens, but nods, cautiously, starting to slide off Mr. Stark’s lap.

“Naw,” says Harley, winking at Peter. “Keep him up, up by you, tuck him up. Not enough room here for the both of us.”

“Well,” chuckles Mr. Stark. “Let’s change up the angle a little, then.” There’s a confusion of limbs for a moment, as Mr. Stark arranges both their bodies just how he wants them, Peter tucked into the back of the couch, head resting on Mr. Stark’s chest, Mr. Stark laid out flat near the edge. He rests his head further up the tall arm, on Peter’s folded jacket and shirt. “Mm,” Mr. Stark sighs. “That’s nice. Like that, Angel?” 

Peter nods, head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Harley is making quick work of Mr. Stark’s buttons, and Peter’s feeling so boneless he just watches, lips parted, as Mr. Stark’s cock comes into sight. It’s flushed and dark, standing up with a deep curve, and nowhere near as thick as Bucky’s, which makes Peter feel relieved, even if it’s a bit longer. Harley smiles up at Peter and says, “Okay, Angel, you watch, I’ll have you join in after a minute or so, you’ll like it, it’s not hard work. Mostly you just gotta learn how to swallow, which is hard, takes some training to get the trick of it. But you can bring him off just, just licking, little kitten licks, if that’s all you can do. Peckers just like attention, Angel, you just gotta give it to ‘em.”

“Fuck,” grunts Mr. Stark, shifting himself and Peter on the chaise, hips lifting in a quick thrust. “Fuck, Harley, stop talking.”

Harley winks at Peter again and then his mouth descends on Mr. Stark’s dick, slow and steady. Peter watches his cheeks hollow, watches his tongue move, his head bob, and marvels, because for all Harley says it ain’t hard work, it sure seems complicated. Mr. Stark’s hands come up, and one of them threads through Harley’s hair, tight, but the other one rests gentle in Peter’s, twirling a little, small tight circles that feel so good. 

“You ready?” murmurs Harley, slotting Peter a look across Mr. Stark’s torso. Peter shakes his head, but then, after a moment, nods. “Yeah,” says Harley, “C’mere, won’t let you mess up, promise.”

Peter wiggles his way down the chaise, Mr. Stark’s hand following him gently, still fiddling with his hair. He meets Harley, across Mr. Stark’s hip bones.

“So we’ll start off real easy, you lick up that side, I’ll lick up this one, meet me at the top, I’ll show you about the slit,” says Harley. Mr. Stark’s fingers twitch in Peter’s hair, but he doesn’t say anything, so Peter figures he doesn’t have a problem with the plan. Peter nods at Harley and then leans down, watching Harley’s tongue flick out in little licks, starting down near the base and working up. Peter swallows, and thinks _be smart_ , and sticks out his tongue, hesitant, and licks the other side.

Mr. Stark twitches again, hands tightening in Peter’s hair, and he almost stops, scared that he’s doing it wrong, but Harley reaches across Mr. Stark’s thighs and touches Peter’s cheek, and Peter raises his eyes to look into Harley’s. Harley gives him a wink, eyes crinkling, and Peter feels his lips twitch back, as he copies Harley’s little licks up the shaft. Twice the dick twitches so hard they have to start over, find a spot where they can meet up, where Peter can catch up to Harley again, follow Harley’s lead up to the tip. At the tip, Harley pulls Peter in with his hand, careful not to dislodge Mr. Stark’s fingers from their gentle grasp of Peter’s head. They kiss, then, around the tip, kind of, Harley’s tongue flashing against Peter’s lips, inside them, and Peter trying to keep up, the tip sliding between their lips, half in Harley’s mouth, half in Peter’s.

Mr. Stark groans, as Harley keeps them there, and Peter can taste some salt that makes his eyes go wide. Harley winks again, and then directs, “All right, you go down for some licks, see if you can wrap that tongue of yours on all sides, I’ll sit up here and suck what I can.”

Peter nods, because he can do that, he _can_ , and moves quickly to rest his cheek against Mr. Stark’s thigh and start licking again. Harley chuckles, and then his lips are almost touching Peter’s cheek, he’s slid down so low. It’s awkward, like this, but Peter can see why Harley didn’t want him on his knees, the way they’re going now, it makes sense. 

Mr. Stark starts to shift, small little clenches of his muscles, like he can’t help it, like he wants to buck up like Peter did, but knows not to. His grip on Peter’s hair is still gentle, loose, but his fingers are twitching. Harley starts moaning, and Peter backs off for a breath, just to breathe, and can see the corded muscles of Mr. Stark’s other arm, which isn’t being gentle and loose at all. Peter decides he doesn’t, doesn’t need to know about that, and presses back in, licking furiously.

“F-fuck, boys,” groans Mr. Stark. “Cat, not, not gonna - _fuck_ \- last, you better teach whatever it is you need to, not gonna- _fuck!_ ”

Harley giggles a little, and Peter smiles to hear it. It is kind of fun and funny, working together like this, making Mr. Stark groan, making him twitch up into their mouths. The hand in Peter’s hair goes taut, and then there’s a grunt, followed by a deep groan, low and long, and the hips under Peter’s cheek stutter. Peter freezes, because he knows, he knows what Harley is going to do next and he _hates_ the taste of it, it makes him gag, but he also can guess what being good would look like, right about now. Mr. Stark is gasping, chest heaving, so Peter knows better than to ask him whether his guess is right. He remembers very well what that boneless, brainless moment feels like, just after. Mr. Stark ain’t going to be able to give guidance on the subject.

He lifts his cheek off of Mr. Stark’s hip and raises it until his mouth is about level with Harley’s. Harley tilts his head and smiles around Mr. Stark’s tip, sliding his lips off with a loud popping sound. Peter leans in, because there’s no point in pretending he doesn’t know what Harley wants him to do. Harley winks at him, and then attacks his mouth with a kiss. It’s messy, the white stuff leaks down Peter’s chin, drips back down onto Mr. Stark, but Harley doesn’t seem to mind when he gags, again, doesn’t seem to mind the mess. When he releases Peter, finally, he licks a broad stripe up Peter’s chin, gathering up the white stuff, and then swallows, the sound wet and exaggerated. “Swallow,” he croaks at Peter. “And then you can clean him up, brother, you made all that mess, not one drop wasted, you hear me?” Peter nods, and swallows, and gags for a second, making Harley shout a laugh. 

“Clean him,” says Harley, “get going, earn that rent, Angel. It’s not bad for a first time payin’ it. You did fine.”

Peter licks at the skin of Mr. Stark’s stomach, where the white stuff that dripped mostly landed, licks down the dark trail of hair where some of it splattered. 

“Fuck,” swears Mr. Stark in a gasp. “Shit, Cat, make ‘im stop.”

“Just grab ahold of his hair,” chuckles Harley. “He’s gonna have to get used to that, too, not everybody around here’s got manners like you.

Peter sits up, though, because he doesn’t want his hair pulled, and Mr. Stark’s hand wraps under his arm, hauling him back up his chest, to rest his head back there, where he can feel the thump of Mr. Stark’s heartbeat again.

“Did good, Angel,” murmurs Mr. Stark. “All the little kitten licks, felt nice.”

“And me?” demands Harley hotly.

“You sucked me off like a fifty thousand-dollar whore and I don’t know if any of those exist,” Mr. Stark tells him, chuckling. “You always do, that tricky damn tongue of yours doesn’t know how to do anything by halves. Stop fishin’ for compliments, Hellcat.” But he pulls Harley down to him by his tie for a long kiss, despite the chiding.

“No, I mean, _now_ , me, _my_ turn,” laughs Harley. “I did so good, oughta get something for it.”

“Peter’n’me are gonna take a nice nap,” Mr. Stark informs him, which is news to Peter. “Go grab us a blanket.”

“Awww,” groans Harley, but he stands up and walks over to the bunk beds, stripping Peter’s light summer quilt off of his bunk. “Suppose you want me to come get you when lunch is laid out,” he mutters when he returns, glowering down at them.

“Yeah, but first tell Steve I said to take care of you,” yawns Mr. Stark. 

“Clint,” argues Harley, with a wicked smile, tucking Mr. Stark’s dick back in, buttoning him back up. “He’s been avoiding me.”

“Yeah, sounds good, go tell him I said he should take care of you, since you’re pulling double duty, teaching Angel tricks,” agrees Mr. Stark, shifting. Peter wonders if he should try to pull his pants on, too. Harley looks down at him and smiles. 

“Nah, leave ‘em off, Angel,” he says confidently. “He’ll want you all ready for Round Two when I wake him up.” Peter gulps, looking up at Harley’s teasing smile, and then rubs his cheek against Mr. Stark’s shirt, trying to find the sound of the heartbeat again. He has no idea how Harley reads his mind at times like these. He suspects the answer is going to be insulting, and have something to do with Peter telegraphing his thoughts somehow.

Mr. Stark chuckles, one hand coming over to press Peter down to his chest, other arm wrapping around him, tucking him in even tighter. “He’s got a whole schedule figured out,” he teases Peter. “Just you rest up while you can.”

“Just you rest up, Angel,” agrees Harley, tossing the blanket over them. “‘Cause if you think my schedule’s anything to worry about, you should hear the Boss’s ideas for you sometime.” He pats Peter’s thigh through the blanket and tosses them both one last smirk and wink before slinking out of the room, whistling Dixie.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter’s not sleeping, tucked under Mr. Stark’s arm on the fainting couch, listening to his smooth breath, his steady heartbeat, the tick of the clock on the mantle. He’s not sleeping, so he hears the knob turn and he’s not startled when Steve’s head peeks past the door. He’s not startled, he’s warm, and calm, feeling for once like his nerves are laying quiet under his skin. Steve looks around the room and then smiles down approvingly at Peter as he pads over on quick and quiet feet. “You can teach the rest of us that trick, too, Angel,” he whispers, before saying louder, “Boss,” and touching Mr. Stark’s shoulder. 

Peter feels Mr. Stark tense a second before his eyes pop open. “Yeah, what? Having a good dream,” grumbles Mr. Stark. His arm twitches, pulling Peter tighter to him.

“And I hate to interrupt it,” says Steve, regret coating his voice. “But Coulson’s here, needs Angel.”

“Ahhh, hell,” breathes Mr. Stark, shifting, scrubbing his other hand over his face. “Well, go stall ‘em, be right out.”

“Pep’s on it, chef’s laying out lunch, ready when you are,” Steve says, straightening. “Take your time, Boss, ‘s just Coulson.”

Mr. Stark nods and sighs, sitting up. Peter sits up with him, stretching for the first time in hours, blood waking up all down his right arm where he’d been motionless. “Crap onna cracker, I’m stiff,” mutters Mr. Stark. “What time izzit?”

“Past one,” says Peter, glancing at the clock across the room. He slides off the chaise and grabs his pants, digging out his drawers, and slipping them on.

Mr. Stark huffs. “Well blow me over, haven’t had a lie in like that in years.”

Peter’s hands trace along the waistband edge of the drawers, settling them into place. Harley, Clint, Natasha, Bucky, and Steve are always napping, always on a busted sleep schedule. That fact makes it seem unlikely that Mr. Stark isn’t on the same kind of system, that he doesn’t _sleep_ . But that’s what he’s seen, the last two days, and what he’s heard the others laugh about. It just doesn’t seem _right_ , though. A guy’s gotta sleep.

Mr. Stark’s arms wrap around Peter’s waist, pulling Peter down to sit on his lap. He nuzzles at the back of Peter’s neck, making Peter squirm. It tickles, a little, and slides down his spine in a strange heavy way.

“You get any shut eye, Angel, baby?” asks Mr. Stark, his voice husky.

“Didn’t need any, went to bed on time last night,” Peter says diffidently, trying not to stiffen up, trying to be good and let it all happen.

“What a concept,” snorts Mr. Stark, patting Peter’s hip and pushing him upright. “Oughta try it some night.”

“You could,” offers Peter, feeling tentative, reaching down to slide on his pants. “I’d- if you wanted to, you could try it.” Mr. Stark catches his darting gaze, captures his attention, and lifts one eyebrow. “It’s a big bed, is all,” says Peter, nodding at Harley’s bed. 

Mr. Stark chuckles and says, “Well, well, Angel. Might could try it someday, you offer it so sweet like that. Gotta be seen right now, hit every club, shake ‘em up.”

Peter nods, still feeling slow and loose, calm, settled.

Mr. Stark leans forward and lifts Peter’s chin, nips at his lips, and says, “Thank you, Angel. Think I needed that.”

Peter stares up at him with wide eyes and smiles shyly.

“God, okay, you gotta stop, Coulson’s a busy guy,” laughs Mr. Stark, but his eyes are calm and merry, too. He rolls his shoulders and nods at Peter’s shirt and tie, still draped over the chaise’s arm. “Leave off the noose and straightjacket, there's no need for them. Find Hellcat’s slippers, too, you're not going anywhere else today.”

Peter nods, happy enough not to need the tie. “No need for the links,” Mr. Stark tells him, “just roll the sleeve up, comfortable. You’re home, you can look it.”

Peter smiles at him, sliding the shirt on easily, doing up the buttons with fast fingers.

“You really lay there that whole time?” asks Mr. Stark, and his voice sounds wistful.

Peter nods, meeting his gaze openly, still feeling that calm slow stretch in his body and mind, and murmurs, “Yessir,” which also sounds like the answer to all the other questions Mr. Stark didn’t ask, but that Peter could hear riding along in that wistful tone. He feels like he probably knows those questions Mr. Stark isn’t asking because he gets wistful, too, some days.

Mr. Stark shakes his head and sighs, “You are something else, Angel.”

“So I hear,” sighs Peter back at him, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. He slides into the slippers and then turns, holding his arms out loosely by his sides for inspection.

“Yeah, that’ll do. Looks loose, relaxed. Should shock him up a bit, always like to try to rattle Coulson,” chuckles Mr. Stark.

Peter smiles back at him.

Mr. Stark turns and snaps his fingers down by his side, low and casual. Peter is at his right shoulder within two steps so that they exit the room together.

~~~

Coulson is a quiet, nondescript man, tidy and neat. Peter could pass him ten times on the street and still only describe him as “a clean cut looking fella.” His effect on the late luncheon table is mystifying, given the blandness.

Clint and Natasha turn effusive, telling story after story, like Peter remembers doing with Aunt May and Uncle Ben at supper. Coulson has a quiet smile, a quiet laugh, a gentle scoff for every twist and turn in the tales as he applies himself to the soup and salad in front of him with neat, tidy little motions. Harley and Bucky sit straighter, use their napkins, chew with their mouths closed. Steve actually ducks his head when Coulson murmurs “Thank you, Captain,” respectfully when Steve passes him the butter dish. It reminds Peter dimly of the judge’s visit the day before, except everyone is still _themselves_ , they’re all just working hard to impress the guy, from what Peter can tell.

Even Mr. Stark is affected. He eats steadily, interrupting the conversations around him to throw the punchline to jokes, confirm details, and provide colorful context for stories, but he usually goes out of his way to draw the eye and capture attention and instead he’s doing a lot of watching, a lot of laughing, a lot of listening.

Eventually, over sweet mint-flavored water, Pepper says into a lull, “Phil, Tony, would you mind coming to the parlour this afternoon, to talk some strategy with Peter and I?”

“Yes, ma’am,” responds Coulson, in the warmest tone Peter has heard him use yet.

“Don’t run when you’re done,” begs Clint. “Stay, come see the new piece Boss’s got me testing?”

“I want to check streets with you on the Harlem border,” Natasha agrees, nodding at Coulson as he stands with Pepper and Mr. Stark. “Make sure our boys or Fury’s are on a couple of the alleys, not sure it’s as tight as I’d like, before we leave.”

Coulson agrees, voice calm, small smile on his lips. Clint and Natasha break into wide grins, like children, and Harley elbows Bucky in obvious excitement. Peter doesn’t understand it, doesn’t feel the same effect, but he can see the others are clearly united on this front, at least.

Pepper draws them down the hallway to her parlour, a room full of golds and pinks, like the bathroom upstairs. 

“Oh, Phil, tell me everything,” she says pleasantly, pouring hot tea into four cups. “How is that Black Knight of yours?”

“Fury’s fine,” replies Coulson with a twitch of his lips. “Although I’m sure he’d still object to being called mine, when it’s the other way around.”

“You’re at least half ours,” argues Mr. Stark, leaning forward intently. “Or is he still paying you extra on the sly?”

“He owns my apartment,” says Coulson, sitting back.

“No! You living down in Harlem these days?” asks Mr. Stark, aghast. “How’s that treating you.”

“Just fine. I like the music, like the folks,” says Coulson, blowing on his tea. “Work's the same work, no matter where I do it.”

“Peter, Phil is our accountant,” Pepper explains gently, handing Peter a cup. It’s tiny and delicate and he knows he’s going to drop it, to break it, so he stares at it in horror. “He’s our bookman. On both sides.”

“‘Specially on the other one,” whispers Mr. Stark in a teasing tone. “Fury runs all of Harlem and most of the Sugar Hill Society neighborhoods on the Eastern Seaboard. Everyone calls me the Sheik like my money spends equally everywhere, but you can’t get into one of those neighborhoods, not really, without the right kinda hair.”

“I’ve had no difficulty,” comments Coulson mildly.

“Yeah, well, I’m missing the skills like you have. Can cook a gang of dumb toughs, maybe, not books,” Mr. Stark says definitively. “Fury and I have a a deal, anyway, goes way back before we were even bosses, back before I had red hands, when I was fresh outta school. I lent him his first guns ‘til he could get himself a toehold, some hands when he needed extra. My money won’t spend in Harlem.”

“No, you get the red carpet guest treatment every time you stop by,” agrees Coulson. “Speaking of, the boss would like to clap eyes on you after all them rumors you were capped three weeks ago by the Canadians.”

Mr. Stark laughs, “I'd like that, tell ‘im yes. Be by on Thursday, bring Natasha, Clint, and Harley.”

“I’ll warn him to set out the Cat traps,” agrees Coulson. They smile at each other over their tea.

“So,” says Coulson, after another sip. “This the new son?”

Peter shifts as all three turn to look at him, and gulps nervously. 

“Yes, this is our Peter,” says Pepper with a warm smile. 

“Peter Stark, all official yesterday, didn’t you catch the society section?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Only he looks nothing like you, Tony,” says Coulson, teasing.

“Not related even a drop,” agrees Tony. “Still ours.”

“You really get the big idea to call up the Gilbreths, kid?” asks Coulson.

Peter nods.

“You got words, too, or just pretty eyes?” chuckles Coulson.

Peter clears his throat and says, “Yes, sir, I used to hawk newsies in Queens, heard about ‘em then. Read through the paper and saw they was moving to New Jersey, thought it might be an opportunity.”

“A real gem,” agrees Mr. Stark, sitting back, smiling sunnily at Peter.

“Well, I agree. Wish I could get them darkside a little, man what they couldn’t do to an operation like Richard’s got going, with them chemical entertainments,” muses Coulson.

Mr. Stark shifts and slants a glance at Pepper. Coulson shakes himself and says, shamefaced, “Beg pardon, Pepper. Know you don’t like to hear it, like to keep your hands clean.”

“I do,” she agrees, tilting her head at him. “Tomorrow morning, I’d like to put Peter up in front of the Board. I’d like him to pitch the Gilbreths so well, the company agrees to pay their consultancy fee upfront.”

Coulson hisses a moment and says, “Half up-front.”

“No, paid in full. If we want to get to them before the rest of the Big Apple, we need incentive,” argues Mr. Stark.

Coulson hums, thinking it over. “All right, I’m in. It’s your money and it’s going to the good cause of making more of it. You want me to coach the kid?”

Pepper and Tony nod.

Coulson eyes up Peter, who looks back, wide-eyed. “Yeah, he’ll need some sharkspray. Okay, kid, let’s talk. I’ll play all the Board, and I’ll play on your team, too, and we’ll work our way through convincing me this is the smartest use of Stark stock.”

Peter gulps his tea and leans forward. “Okay,” he says, reaching for that calm and settled place inside. “Shoot. I’m ready.”

Mr. Stark and Pepper share a proud look, across the table, as Coulson leans in, grabbing for paper and a pencil, and begins to help Peter build a pitch for the next day, argument by argument, figure by figure.

~~~

Clint sticks his head in the parlor and whines, “He ever coming out?”

Pepper sighs and smiles wanly at Coulson. “Oh, go on,” she tells him. “You know once they start they won’t stop. They miss you, Phil. You should come by before Thursday. Or stay over, tonight.”

“They don’t miss me,” chuckles Coulson. “They landed in the sweet spot, here. They’re happier here than they ever were running security for me and Nick. Bigger risks, bigger chances.”

Clint steps into the room. “No, we miss you, it’s like a toothache,” he describes, shaking his head. “You dumped us off on Tony, and he’s been swell. Nat loves it here- so do I. It’s like a candy store, but doesn’t mean we don’t miss the guy who used to hold the gun to our heads, our feet to the fire.”

Coulson’s face splits into a pleased smile, wider than any Peter has seen out of him all afternoon. He says, “Well, you got one thing right, anyway, Pepper. If I don’t go with them now, they won’t stop until I do. They’re awful,” he tells Peter. “You be a good kid and stay away from them. Danger twins, ‘smuch as Harley’s a vice magnet.”

Clint laughs and says, “Got us dead t’rights. C’mon, Phil, come look at the gun, come fight with Natasha about the boundaries and who should get to walk ‘em at night.”

“I’ll be good,” promises Peter quietly, because he gets it, now, gets what makes Coulson special. There’s nothing the man doesn’t know, in his quiet way, nothing he can’t explain and make you see it better. The past two hours have felt like weeks, with everything Peter understands now that he didn’t this morning.

“Good Angel,” praises Phil, standing. Peter flushes, because he’s been working so hard the last few hours and he gets the feeling that, with all Phil knows, he knows _that_ , too.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a real good boy,” teases Clint. “We know, nobody will shut up about it, let’s _go_ , Phil.”

Phil‘s whole body stills, and then he sits, calmly, and asks Peter, “What’s your favorite book? You gotta book you’ve read so many times you got it memorized?”

“Treasure Island,” says Peter promptly, and watches as Clint’s jaw drops, and then clenches, watches as Clint glares at Phil’s back and fumes.

“Tell me why,” orders Phil quietly.

“I- I like how he picked the words, and he made the bad guys so bad, but you still like some of ‘em,” says Peter, glancing over at Clint in worry.

“Don’t you worry about him,” says Phil breezily. “He wants to be rude, he can suffer the consequences like the big man he’s tryin’ t’be. Won’t be the first time his dumb mouth got him in trouble with me. He’s smart, he’ll figure out how to fix it. You ever read Swiss Family Robinson?”

“Y-yeah, I liked it, too,” says Peter, looking to Pepper for assistance. She smiles and take a sip of her tea, shrugging her shoulders slightly. No help there. He doesn’t even try for Mr. Stark, the man is smiling broadly and practically chuckling.

“Pep, Tony, I think I will take you up on that offer, stay the night,” says Phil, sounding innocent and casual. Both of the Starks murmur pleased statements. Peter doesn’t look at Clint to see what his reaction is, because he’d rather not get farther into the middle of this, this kinda fight thing they’re having. 

Phil turns to Peter again and asks, “You ever think about running away to someplace you could live in the trees, live like that?” His eyes are bright, interested, the same gentle smile he’s had on all afternoon.

Peter nods, cautiously. “I did, I do. It’d be so very _different_. I never even been to Central Park.”

“Phi-il,” drawls Clint, kicking at the floor in front of him. Phil shares an amused look with Pepper and then lifts his eyes to the ceiling in clear exasperation, asking Peter, “You know how to tie knots?”

“Some, but not many,” admits Peter. “I don’t think I’d do too well, right away.”

“But you’re bright,” praises Phil. “You’d pick it up, I’d put odds on you.”

Peter smiles at the thought of that.

“Okay, I’m sorry, kid - _Peter_ \- that was rude,” spits Clint. “You are a good kid, we like having you around. _Please_ , Phil.”

“I know you said you liked putting things together, takin’ them apart, in the Home,” says Phil, obviously ignoring this interruption. “You’d pick up on building things out of scrap parts, trying them out, testing them, easy. Natural inventor, I bet.”

“I’d love that,” laughs Peter. “A whole day just to take things apart, try to make them work better? That’s paradise.”

“That’s what I was saying, Tony, you should let him loose with some of your engineers, set him to making up some prototypes with them, learning that side of things. Pepper has the business end down tight. He can learn it, but the Empire doesn’t need another Pepper,” urges Phil. Peter feels his ears start to flush again, as Mr. Stark looks over at him with a considering glance and Pepper murmurs wordless agreement. “Stark Empire needs a man who can do new gun technologies, can look and see new ways of thinking of the ones you already got.”

Clint groans and then says, “Fine. Peter, Boss, even _Pepper_ , any of you want to come up to the range with me and Phil to look at the new mod for the Stark 1919 I been given to try out?”

Peter looks to Mr. Stark, who smirks and says, “Yeah, me and Peter’ll come, for sure. Pep, you in?”

“Oh, no thank you,” she demurs. “Contract season is upon us. Pages to go before I rest.”

Phil stands again, easily, and Peter scrambles to his feet before Mr. Stark can give him a snap.

Clint hisses, eyes dark, and Peter shifts until both Mr. Stark and Phil are between him and the other man. He does want to look at the gun, though, and it’s pretty clear Phil wants him up at the range, too. It’s not Peter’s fault Clint is acting screwy, is it?

When they get to the range, Clint has the gun laid out on a table. Phil asks a number of questions Peter wouldn’t have thought to, and Mr. Stark asks some more. Peter is soaking everything in, trying to repeat the words in his head so he can talk about what he sees and thinks later. Finally, Clint gives a full round of demonstration and Peter’s jaw drops, because there’s only one hole on the paper when he’s done, just left of dead center. “Wow,” he says to Clint. “Wow, where’d you learn how ta _do_ that?”

“Circus,” Clint tells him shortly, and then takes a breath and says, like it pains him to start up a conversation with Peter, “Usedta be the Amazing Hawkeye, traveled around some as a sharpshooter.”

Peter gasps, and he know his eyes must be full of awe but he can’t help it. “You was in the circus?” he asks, voice squeaking a little in his disbelief. “You was _in the circus?”_

“Yeah, stop looking at me like that, it’s not, it’s not how you think it is. Elephants shit so much, kid,” says Clint roughly, but his lips quirk up a twitch.

“You had _elephants_ ,” states Peter, voice rising with each word. “You had a whole circus and you had _elephants?!”_

“It wasn’t mine,” protests Clint, giving the far target a black look. “Don’t know why you heard that, I was one of the acts, that’s all. And yeah, we had elephants. Giraffes, too. Couple o’ lions. A bear. It rode a bike.”

“It _rode_ a _bike_ ,” repeats Peter, shocked. “It did not,” he says, then, suddenly suspicious. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Sure it did. Next time they’re in town, I’ll take you down, show you around,” offers Clint easily, eyes laughing.

“No,” gasps Peter. “You’re joking. Me, at a circus?!”

“What, you never been?” laughs Clint.

“When I was a kid, sure, Uncle Ben would take me. I loved the monkeys best,” confides Peter.

“Ugh, gross, they’re such nasty little beggars,” chuckles Clint.

“I ain’t been in years,” Peter swears. “You really would take me, let me see the bear?”

“Kid, I’ll let you ride the bike,” promises Clint.

“No fooling?” asks Peter.

“No fooling,” agrees Clint.

“Wow,” says Peter, thinking of the possibilities, thinking of touching the _bear_.

“Did that hurt so much?” asks Phil, then, quietly. “Find that hard to do?”

Clint tosses his head and sights down the gun. During their conversation, he’d reloaded, Peter realizes. “No, sir,” he says, and then he’s firing again.

Peter looks around, but doesn’t see Mr. Stark. He’s disappointed for a second, but Mr. Stark is a busy guy. He can’t just hang around listening to two fellas talk about a circus. He probably goes to the circus three times a year, Peter thinks fiercely. And then his thinks about Pepper saying it was a big deal for Mr. Stark to go get a sundae with Peter the day before. When Clint takes him, he resolves, he’s taking Mr. Stark, too. And Harley. They’ll all go, and then Peter can pet a real live bear.

When Clint is done, Peter says, “Can I go get the target this time?”

“Yeah, sure, kid,” says Clint, shooting him a strange look from under his eyelashes. Peter wanders out onto the range and grabs the sheet, whistling when he sees it’s almost one single hole again, just left of dead center.

When he walks back, they’re talking. 

Phil is saying, “So it’s been a bad couple of weeks, then, buncha stuff out of place for you.”

“Not that,” spits Clint. “‘Tasha’s just been busy, and then she taught Harley those damn tricks, you know the ones.” His shoulders twitch.

“Sounds like something she’d do, if he asked, and he’d ask, if he saw you being lonely, I think. Kid’s got a big heart,” offers Phil.

“A big something,” grunts Clint, fiddling with the gun in his hands, not actually doing anything that Peter can see would make any difference, not that he knows much.

“She’d do it, too, don’t you think, worrying about you bein’ left out and lonely,” says Phil reasonably. Clint scowls down at the target paper Peter holds out silently. “I’m fine,” he tells Phil.

“You sure are now,” agrees Phil. “Looking much more like yourself, now. Ain’t heard a rude word outta you in five whole minutes. Anything else twisting you up, besides the fact that your family loves you and is trying their best to make you feel good, feel loved?”

Clint lets loose a hiss that ends in a grunt. “Nah,” he says. “That’s probably about it.”

“Mm,” says Phil, eyeing up Peter. “Well, you think on it, you let me know. I'll be spending the night.”

“I heard,” sighs Clint. “I don’t need it.”

“My call, not yours,” says Phil easily. “Hey, Angel, you think anything about this grouping?”

“I think Clint’s a good enough shot, it’s the gun doing something wrong,” says Peter firmly.

Clint snorts. “Shows what you know, I mess up shots all the time.”

“Yeah, but if it was a mistake, how’d they be grouped so tight, still?” asks Peter. “Mistakes usually go wild, right? I try to shoot it, them bullets gonna be lucky to hit, and no two of ‘em in the same place.”

“He’s got you there,” laughs Phil, clapping Clint on the shoulder and shaking him a little. “Would you listen to him, good logic, Angel. So, Clint, what do you think it is, makes it pull so far to the left?”

“Either bad barrel or bad sights, somehow. I can correct for it, but that’s not the goal of this exercise,” grunts Clint.

“You can correct for it?” asks Peter, awestruck.

“Obviously, look how I sunk ‘em all in one place,” snorts Clint.

“Can you show me? Or- or would that waste bullets?” asks Peter uncertainly.

There’s a pause, and then Clint says, “Kid, you know you’re living in a mansion _built_ on bullet money, right? We make the bullets. We make the bullets for the whole world, seems like.”

“Oh,” says Peter. He considers the gun, then glances up at Clint and lets a smile spread across his face. “Guess we can waste a few then.”

“Oh yeah,” smiles Clint. “I’ll show you how I can correct it, and then, kid, you wanna shoot some?”

“Me?!” gulps Peter, looking down at the gun, out at the target, and up into Clint’s face.

“You see any other kid around here acting all pesky?” teases Clint. “You gotta learn, anyway, if it’s gonna be half your Empire. If you’re gonna be helping build ‘em, oughta know how to shoot ‘em.”

Peter swallows again, and nods. Clint’s face breaks into a smile as he whirls and shoots in rapid succession. Peter watches, but he can already see, there’s only one hole in the paper, and it’s dead center.

“Go fetch it up, put up another one for you,” orders Clint with a smile.

As Peter passes Phil, the man gives a little bounce on his toes, and Peter looks up at him. He’s smiling, too. 

~~~

They’re walking into the house, Peter holding his best target out in front of him, because Clint says he should show Steve and Bucky, when Natasha appears out of nowhere to join them and Phil pauses the whole group to turn and ask her, “You havin’ any problem with Angel I need to know about?”

She blinks, face blank, and then looks back and forth between all of them for a moment. Peter doesn’t know what she reads on Clint’s face, or in his body language, that Peter can’t read, but after a moment a wry smile twists her lips and she says, “No. He’s a good guy. Took Tony out for ice cream yesterday, played ball with Harley in the hall on Friday. Steve and Bucky seem pretty entertained. Pepper’s in love. I’m glad he’s in suits of his own today, looks nice, wears it better than Harley, takes better care of it.” She doesn’t ask why Phil wants to know, Peter notes.

“Good,” says Phil. “Any reason you and Clint didn’t have me to dinner last week?”

Natasha flinches for a second. Peter almost missed it because it’s just around her eyes, but he’s learning you have to watch Natasha real close to catch anything. She answers, cooly, “Was a little busy.”

“Mm-hm,” hums Phil, and _Clint_ flinches this time. “Heard about that. Any reason you didn’t think to invite me over to chat about all that busy?”

“I could handle it,” says Natasha confidently, tilting her head, her eyes narrowing just a little at Phil.

“‘Could handle it’ being the same as ‘has to handle it,’ now?” he asks, mild surprise in his tone. “I don’t remember reading about that in the papers.”

Natasha’s lips purse.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” says Phil easily. “I’m staying the night.”

“You don’t have to,” she starts, but he lifts a hand and says firmly, “My call, not yours.”

She nods, then, her lips frowning just a bit as Phil starts walking. She falls into step on his right, the way Clint falls in on his left, a half-pace behind him, like clockwork. Peter trails behind the group and then splits off entirely with a shout of “Hey, Steve!” when he spots the other man down a long hallway. Steve pauses, turning to look over at him, clearly waiting. “Bye, guys, see you at dinner,” he says in a rush. “Bye, ‘Tasha.”

“Bye, Angel,” says Phil, and Natasha and Clint repeat after him, amusement evident in their tones as they glance at each other.

Peter walks quickly over to Steve and holds out the target. “Look how I shot! Clint says I could train up! Phil says, it’s important to know how the guns work, so I can help the Empire build better ones, and Tony thinks that’s a good idea, Steve!”

“Well, that’s a pretty sweet grouping, your first time out,” says Steve, smile playing on his lips. It breaks into a grin as he passes the paper back to Peter. “You can add that to your schedule, if Clint’s thinking of training you up, he’ll have you out there every day.”

Peter smiles, “I’d like that, I would, I learned so much about all the pieces, how they all work together, Clint and Phil was explaining it to me. Did'ya know there are different kinds of bullets, Steve?”

“Sure did,” laughs Steve. “The kind that hit and the kind that misfire’s all that matter to me, though.”

“Stark bullets don’t misfire,” argues Bucky, coming over to them from a nearby room. “Whose target is that? Yours, Angel? Wondered where you’d gotten off to.” He takes the target and whistles. “Not bad, for a first time.”

“Not bad for a tenth time,” laughs Steve, grabbing Peter in a headlock and rubbing his knuckles through Peter’s hair. Peter squirms, laughing, and wiggles out easily, coming to stand by Bucky’s side and look at the grouping. “They all hit the paper!” he tells Bucky.

“Sure did, Angel,” says Bucky. “You should show this to the Boss, he’d like it, be real proud.”

“He would?” asks Peter, doubtfully.

“Boss had a gun in his hand from age two,” Bucky informs him. “Knows ‘em back and forth, up and down, if he had more time, he’d still be designing new things for ‘em, too. Sometimes still does, he gets an idea he can’t get rid of. He’d be proud.”

Peter nods, and then shies a glance up at each of the men. “You proud?” he asks, quietly. He doesn’t know why he wants to know, other than that it would feel good.

“Sure are,” says Steve. “Good to know you’ll be able to handle yourself in a tight spot.”

“Don’t ever expect as you’ll need it, but survival skills is like that, good to know, anyway,” agrees Bucky.

Peter feels something tighten in his chest. It’s been- he blows out a breath- a long time since someone cared enough to feel proud of him.

“You keep looking like that, you’re gonna get kissed right here in a public hallway,” threatens Steve with a laugh. “And won’t that make Jarvis frown. Here, let’s go up to our wing, see if the Boss is in Pepper’s suite.”

They start walking, Peter following because he hasn’t had time yet to explore, to find his way around. “Does Mr. Stark have rooms just for him, too?” Peter asks. 

“Sure, he’s got his study, the billiards room, a workshop out near the carriage house just for him,” says Bucky easily.

“No, I mean, like, Harley’s got a room, Pepper’s got a room, seems like Natasha must have one, too,” says Peter, waving a hand as they climb the stairs.

“Oh, yeah, no, he don’t have a suite just to himself,” laughs Steve. “More like he has three suites that belong to him, keeps his day clothes in by Pepper and his flashbang suits in by Natasha.”

“And his toys in by Harley,” laughs Bucky. Steve snorts.

“Huh,” says Peter.

“The whole place is his, Peter, and everything in it, built just for him,” says Steve quietly. “This’s how he likes it. Likes having him two wives that love him equal, likes having Harley and you, kept close by. Likes having doors that connect them three rooms for him, so he can slip between ‘em easy.”

“All three of ‘em are his rooms,” Bucky says, his tone just as quiet, just as soft. “You’re the ones living in _his_ rooms.”

“Oh,” says Peter quietly. “Just seems like he might want a bed to his own self.”

“Nah, that’s a good way to wake up crying at night,” says Steve, voice gentle, as they enter Pepper’s suite.

“What’s a good way to wake up crying at night?” asks Harley, stretching himself over the back of the couch. His shirt’s off, and his feet are bare, stretched out to push him against the carpet.

“Going to bed alone,” laughs Bucky.

“Ain’t _that_ the truth,” laughs Harley, eyes twinkling. “Say, whatcha got there, Pete?”

Peter holds up the target and Mr. Stark looks up from his notepad. He stands up and walks over to the three men and whistles. “This Clint with the new mod? Or you? Looked rough when I was checking it out, before you all got to jawing.” His eyes narrow at the grouping.

“Me,” says Peter, a little nervously.

Mr. Stark whistles again and moves his way through the couches without looking, to sit back down. “Clint gonna have you out again tomorrow, after the Board meeting?”

“That’s what he said,” Peter replies happily.

“I like it, it’s a good plan. You like the idea, Angel?” He shoots Peter a penetrating glance.

“I do,” says Peter. “I learned so much, just that short time up there, and you heard how Phil thinks I could be helpful in the design, if I learn enough.”

“You will,” Mr. Stark assures him, setting aside the target, folding it up and putting it on a stack of papers next to him, like he means to _keep_ it, thinks Peter, his heart thumping a bit at that thought. Mr. Stark picks up the notepad next, glancing over whatever he’s already written on it. “Your brain picks up tricks just as fast as Harley’s does. Got two of the smartest kids on the planet right here in this room.”

“Clint had me out, too, when I first got here,” Harley informs Peter sunnily. “Only I didn’t like it as much.”

“Had to tan you to get you to go,” grunts Bucky.

“Prefers his fists,” Steve tells Peter with a smile when Peter stares, shocked, at Harley. “Or his feet.”

“Fists don’t misfire and blow your hand away,” Harley snorts.

“You’re the heir to a gun empire, Harley,” laughs Bucky.

“Yeah, and a boot _legger_ one, and you note they don’t call it boot _gunning_ ,” grumbles Harley.

“I’ll show you the workshop some day this week, I’ll make an opening in my schedule,” Mr. Stark says to Peter. “Little hoppin’ this week, with Clint and ‘Tasha headed for Canada by Saturday and me just back in town. Gotta pick up all the pieces. But you should see it, start putting things together and pulling them apart. No time like yesterday for starting.”

“Tony,” says Steve, a frown on his face, “Should probably make sure Angel’s safe enough he’s not gonna kill himself out there. You got all kinds of things out in that bunker.”

Tony eyes him and says, “Think I got him just to let him kill himself, Cap?” Peter winces.

Steve shifts, jaw tightening, “Think you might be a little careless with your toys, time to time, that’s all.”

“Oh, don’t start, Steve, just leave if you’re gonna start,” groans Harley. “It’s too hot for that, you two going at it, and my stomach’s still turned from that gin last night.”

“Still turned from having to be poured into bed, and then get up for church,” laughs Bucky. “You just can’t keep up with the Boss or the big dogs.”

Harley scowls and says, “Coulda had a nap but Clint was some hard to find.”

Mr. Stark glances up from notepad and murmurs, “But you did find him, right, Hellcat?”

“Nah, Steve found me first,” smiles Harley, tipping his head back to smirk up at Steve.

“And thank God for that,” mutters Bucky, sharing an amused look with Mr. Stark. “Got him all hot and bothered and then got busy, didn’t take care of it. Had to shove him in the shower to get my rounds done, check in with the boys.”

Mr. Stark is still frowning, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “Well, Phil’s here. He’ll fix that,” he says, philosophically. “You let me know if he’s still avoiding you tomorrow, though, Cat.”

“Sure, Boss,” says Harley easily. “You know he won’t though, Phil probably took one look at lunch and knew the whole story, figured out the next three chapters.”

Mr. Stark chuckles and says, “Sure wish we could get him working just for us, living here regular. You know he’s bunking down in Harlem?”

“God, I’d kill to live down there,” sighs Harley, “all that music, you never heard such music, Fury’s got a sweet spot all right.”

Mr. Stark frowns at him, and then his face clears, “Well, Thursday night we’re invited.”

“No!” shouts Harley, face lighting up, sitting forward. “You mean it? Tony, Bessie is in town. _Bessie_.”

“I mighta heard something of that nature,” murmurs Mr. Stark, shooting him a teasing glance.

“You are the best, Boss, the living end,” swears Harley. “I’ll do whatever you say all week.”

“You’d do that anyway,” grunts Bucky, smacking Harley upside the head. “‘S half of why he pays me.”

“Yeah, well I’ll do extra, if I got _Bessie_ to look forward to,” promises Harley, making Mr. Stark and the other men chuckle. “Can Peter come? Please? Just to see Bessie?”

All three of the other men shift, sharing dark, considering looks. Mr. Stark looks over at Peter and says, “Maybe. We’ll jaw about it. Maybe he could come down for a bit.”

Peter nods, slowly. 

“Shee-it,” swears Harley. “Make my whole week. Can I go tell ‘Tasha? She’ll jump.”

“Yeah, skeddaddle, all of you, daddy’s got work to do,” sighs Mr. Stark, touching his fingers to the stacks of paper next to him.

Harley whoops and heads for the door, Bucky and Steve chuckling and following him.

“Tony?” asks Peter quietly, feeling hesitant.

“Yeah, Angel,” sighs Mr. Stark absently, tapping the notepad. “What is it?”

“Can I stay? I got a book, I’ll be quiet,” promises Peter.

Tony looks up at him, sharp eyes searching Peter’s face. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “Go grab it, drop a pillow, you can sit right here on the floor by me and read.”

Peter nods, breathing a sigh of relief, and goes to get the book. When he gets back, there’s a pillow already on the floor by Tony’s feet and he settles into it, leaning his head against Tony’s knee, and feeling the calm spread back through him, the calm from the chaise earlier in the day, from listening to Tony’s heartbeat for hours on end. It had been there all afternoon, a steady thrum, but now it lifts him up again, wraps around him. Tony’s hand reaches down, tussles his hair a bit, and Peter sighs because that feels nice, too, and then he slips into 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea and loses track of anything outside of it but the quiet of the room, the scratch of Tony’s pencil, and the slow steady sound of their joint breathing.

The house moves around them, Natasha and Pepper both send someone as a messenger with more sheets of paper for Tony, and at one point Peter can hear Harley and Bucky shouting in the hallway. But nothing disturbs the calm feeling wrapped around him, his head tucked up against Tony’s knee, until Steve walks in and says, “Boss, Chef says dinner’s about ready to lay on, you wrapping up soon?”

Tony drops the notebook beside him and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, it’s all sorted, just doubling up on my math. Boston’s gonna be a problem, Natasha kept the lid on ‘em but they’re brewing. Gonna need to take a two-day trip, shake ‘em up, next couple of weeks.”

Steve nods and says, “The plant or the-”

“I said Tasha, not Pepper,” snorts Tony. “Plant’s fine. Although,” he sighs, “if we’re going, that could use a check, too.”

Peter closes his book, folding the dust jacket over to hold his spot. “Should I put on the jacket and the tie, or ask Harley for a different suit?” he asks the two men doubtfully.

“Oh, Lord,” grunts Tony, standing. “That’s a Pep question, go run down to her parlor and ask it.”

“Only I don’t know how to knot a tie,” says Peter, slowly, standing up as well, holding the book before him with two hands. “Harley’s been helping me.”

“I’ll get it,” says Steve with a smile. “You go run and ask her which one you’re wearing to dinner, I’ll be right here, or in my rooms, when you need it. I’ll teach ya how, ain’t hard.”

Peter nods and then mutters, “Thanks, Tony.” His eyes dart up for a glance, quick, trying to put a whole world of gratitude in one heartbeat of a look.

Tony reaches out and ruffles his hair, his own eyes dark and understanding. “You bet, Angel. Anytime.”

Peter nods, then heads to his room to drop off the book and go chase down Pepper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as several people have noted, I'm slowing down, way drastically. That's because I had this huge backlog of stories I'd written in my head and I kid you not, was so excited that I wasn't completely sucking as a writer-of-stories, that I didn't sleep more than a few hour a night for like, three weeks there.
> 
> That's not sustainable. It was a manic phase of my life and I love that I lived it, but completely not sustainable.
> 
> Anyway, if you're patient, I'll keep going. My goal is to have stuff out once or maybe twice a week, in either of the long stories, or maybe some short stories, until I run out of things I want to write for you. I'll probably make a zillion other AUs and short scenes happen, and you'll all have to be patient with me, because I have this whole life thing I'm also doing, and I can't apologize enough for the fact that we live in a world where I can't just peddle smut all day for you.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c71ncgK-21o
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like my birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me!


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